Progress
by Tenjoname
Summary: Story about a blood elfs journey from the safety of his home city across the dubious towns of Azeroth in search of his sister. - Mainly a side story for Rooietroll 's story of "No Money, No Deal" go read! /s/7785635/1/No-Trade-No-Money-No-Deal (This story is undergoing chapter shuffling and relisting!)
1. Chapter 1

"Dammit Father why won't you just LISTEN for once?!"

Scroll cases clatter to the ground as the desk shook under the impact. A firm hand clenched on top of the paperwork at the eye-level to the elder of the two elves. The greying magister at the desk stubbornly refused to look the younger male in the face and merely pursed his lips firmly at the disruption to his precious parchments.

"You seriously aren't going to attempt to find her? Nothing in all of...this.." the younger gestures dramatically towards the ceiling high shelves crammed with crumbling scrolls, leather bound books strangely glowing crystals – some of which Rotharian had long suspected were his fathers 'secret stash' to keep the old addictions at bay. "Nothing here can possibly locate her? All this useless , frail, archaic ancient tripe ..." The last words practically spat at the desk.

A withered eyebrow raises in annoyance and the stubborn silence cracks

"Rotharian, you know it isn't as simple as all that, and you especially, could not understand even if I told you why I cannot" Disdain dripped from the elder Magisters words, eyes glinting with vicious indignance. He continued to write, attempting to ignore the disturbance.

"Can't my arse!" The elder shudders at such crude language in his office, wincing at every syllable. "I may be flawed in the old ways... Father... but I'll be fel-damned before I let one I love be lost so easily."

"...She knows what she is doing. " The quill scratches faster and more determined on the parchment

"Really Father? Really?! Or could it be you shamed her into leaving? Or into hiding? Like you did to me? We're not up to your standards once more and then disposed of, like we never existed? Can you not see how this destroying Mother inside? Or Rahvahra? The poor girl can only leave her books to eat and sleep, and even then she is barely getting enough of either because of your mountain of unreasonable expectations for mine and Riselles alleged failings! This family is falling apart at its seams for the sake of your pride, and I won't accept that Riselle is just gone!"

The anger beginning to rise in the elder elf, his left eye twitched in the telltale way, Rotharian could see he was breaking through the wall in his father's flawless marble-like countenance. The magister slams his quill onto the desk, his ears flushing red with frustration

"And what would you do? What CAN you do, boy? Can't you understand it is better for us this way? There is no explaining to do for the council, or nasty little evidence to be used against us. This family have already fallen from grace, and I will NOT have what tattered remains of dignity dragged through the mud. What with no suitable heir and now Riselle bringing yet more shame to us! Of course your mother and I are concerned, but it is better for the family, for Ravahra that her studies go unhindered and untarnished by your uneducated hot-head and your errant sister!"

He was standing now, finally acknowledging the conflict before them. Face to face, the pair looked so similar – the same strong jaw line, fixated gaze with furrowed brows, the slight arrogant tilt of the chin and broad shoulders. The only real physical difference at first glance would be his father's tall white blonde topknot, not to mention the decadent red and gold clothing, while Rotharian had inherited his mothers chestnut locks, which he wore long, often loosely tied to avoid getting in the way, his own clothing less grand but distinguished nonetheless. The disappointed son took a deep breath before meeting his father's words with equal disgust.

"I'm sure it's terribly unfortunate in the eyes of the council, that one of the prized daughters of this once great house has been 'lost' without a trace. How wonderfully the noble parents are containing their loss so well considering their great misfortune. Imagine it! To have such two talented magic-weavers produce a son so devoid of magic. And then, the eldest of the girls, who showed such promise just 'disappear' with no clue... " He snaps his fingers to emphasise the point " . I'm not stupid Father, contrary to your belief, and I'm not going to accept this facade you and your damned council are forcing upon us."

He pushes off the desk with an exasperated sigh to glance out the window. The setting sun filtered in a golden light across the study, drawing long shadows from familiar objects, leaning against the stone frame, head on his forearm he looks out across the well kept garden. Warm sunbeams caressed his face. He knew this was the last time he would be in this house as a legitimate member of the family, after this last outburst and what he would say next, there would be no way he could return publicly, at least not empty handed or without honour. And honour was a gift rarely given to the living.

This confrontation had been building for years, decades even. At first they were delighted to have a son, an elder boy to take command once the patriarch magister has crumbled away into dust, just like his father and his father before him. Then the difficulties began. It wasn't uncommon for there to be late developers, but after repeated lessons, painful visits to father's strange friends , long nights forcing the boy via new and twisted means due to his complete inability to warp the arcane in the simplest manner it became horribly apparent – Rotharian simply could not use magic at all. In centuries of family history it had been unheard of, the offspring of one of the most adept magic-weavers together with his mate, one of the wielders of 'the light' to be so barren in any magical talent. Unfortunately, that meant the proverbial pecking order had changed dramatically – Riselle who was the next eldest would be looked at to take charge, Rotharian was now merely a parasite sucking useful resources away from both his sisters unless he could be 'dealt' with, but for now, it was best for the family he was hidden from public eye and association. He looks back at his father, almost despairingly as he could see the jaw clenching as the elders withdrawal symptoms were becoming evident under stress.

"Is that all then, Rotharian?" The simple question still posed as a challenge the younger, as he reseats himself and picks up the quill once more to scratch over the dishevelled documents. Once again, it had seems the younger elfs words had fallen on deaf ears.

"Nearly father" Rotharian, symbolically slips the gemmed seal ring from his finger and places it on the parchment under his father's nose, and regards him with an equally chilled look. "Give my love to mother, tell her not to worry, and the Sunwell help you if you harm Ravahara in any way... I will know...Shorel'aran" He turns and walks from the room, the sun on his back, not stopping for any protests.

Not that any came, just the simple scratching of quill on parchment.


	2. Chapter 2

Holding a rough stone bowl with her large feet she pounds colourful plants into a pulp, humming cheerfully with the rhythm. Tiny bell charms on her wrist, ankles and braids chiming along with her as she works, occasionally tipping the contents into a small simmering cauldron on a nearby fire and placing some fresh herbs into the bowl, coils of smoke rising from her long thin pipe.

Pu'Shala, or Puush to her friends, was just downright eccentric looking – even for a troll. Her garb was a strange mix of badly skinned leathers and brightly coloured beaded silks. Her long flaming orange hair was braided with vibrant ribbons, feathers and bells while her arms and legs sported many charms mixed made of precious metals, wood and bones which jingled as she walked. All necessary for her profession she had decided. Being 'just' a merchant was nothing special, even though her wares were rare to come by; you had to fight for your reputation in such a competitive world. Customers needed to remember who you were and how to find you in the buzzing midst of _Orgrimmar_ Bazaar. Being tall helped, being female definitely helped those men, and some women, who were under the influence of the local moonshine – many a poor soul had walked away with several scrolls entirely useless to them because of her charm and clever tongue.

She flicks a bug off her long tusks and carried on preparing the ink for the teleportation scroll. They had never been her *best* work, but usually, those desperate enough to use a scroll rather than an expensive mage portal weren't in a financial situation to complain about the results, and more often than not, too far away after use to complain. She laughs out loud and taps the dangling sign making the wooden chimes clunk, it read:

'_Unhappy wiv goods? Accept all Returns – unused within 14 moons'_

Sure people complained, once they had eventually returned from wherever they had actually landed it was far too late to do anything about it. To be fair, the locations were never THAT far off the desired point, the right domain ... usually... continent, definitely.

The bazaar was particularly busy today, and the sun was beating down upon the masses. Pu'Shala had managed to pitch her temporary stall (being a stretched blanket above for shade and another to sit on) in a prime spot right near a small pool which was not only good for the ink making but she could collar customers when they came to soothe their aching feet in the waters. Across the way a stern looking Tauren had his ample weaponry stand with various great sized axes and oversized wooden staves spread on a huge hide, presumably kodo. He was haggling loudly with a pair of goblins, bruisers probably from the new shanty town. They seemed to think they should be getting a discount for being discriminated against by being too short and unable to pick up one particular elaborate axe which was clearly too heavy for them.

'Little brothers, I have many other axes more suited for you? Surely if you cannot wield such a large item, it is of no worth to you?'

'You hear that Gribb? You hear that! Right there! He insulted us!' The greasier of the two goblins hopped angrily from one foot to another pointing accusingly towards the bemused black mountain of a sales-Tauren. The bald goblin nods vigorously next to him, trying desperately not to give the game away by lusting after the shiny weaponry

'I did Rab! I did! That's got to be at least half off the price for offensive language!'

The Tauren shakes his head in disbelief as the goblins continue to gesture at him wildly.

Pu'Shala catches the eye of the Tauren and points to her stack of scrolls with a sign "Go anywhere any time!" with a toe and a wink which she continues pounding the herbs with a chuckle. The Tauren raises an eyebrow with an appreciative nod and continues to placate the small green angry customers. Elsewhere in the market a dark figure cuts through the bustle, nosing at stalls here and there, a few market goers giving the man a wide berth turning their noses up at the smell as he pokes over imported wares and spices. An elder lady Orc shouts out the daily catch while her mate guts fish with his thick hands, tossing the body to the table and the innards into a bucket to his side, a hungry ginger worg rests uneasily near the stall – an effort to fend off would be thieves, but the wafting stench of fish guts causes the hot wolf to stare and drool at the bucket, knowing a reward will come later if he is obedient.

A leather clad hand belonging to the stooping owner swathed in a long dark maroon battered cloak with wide brimmed hat, rests on the cauldron tripod before picking through the jar labelled _'Escape scrolls – 50s'_ with a sniff of disapproval and a gravelly voice.

"Really Pu'Shala, you can't expect people to pay good money for faulty transportation"

She only grins even wider in her thick trollish accent "You be jus jealous ya dint tink av it! Dere is always some'un who be desperate enough ta jump ta somewhere unknown. It nat be ma problem where, ah jus be providin' da service." She flicks her braids confidently and flirtily pouts at the potential customer "An how can ah be helpin ya today ma fine man, eh?"

He sighs with a roll of his eyes "Reluctantly, I find myself in need of one of you transportation parchments... my fine lady."

She ceases obliterating the pulp and rests the stone instruments and looks up at him rather surprised "Realleh?" Her voice pitched higher for the question, she stands and to sort through some blank parchments ready to receive her inscription "Whatchoo be wantin' wit a 'portation scroll from me eh? Ah thought you can move ya own sorry carcass by da arcane dese days?"

The figure pulls his cloak back with the leather hand to reveal a ragged boney stump ending at the elbow with a sigh "Such incantations usually require both hands... A slight accident down at Razor Hill" He dryly explains while she squints at it, then pokes it sharply with her long pipe inspecting the damage "Madam, do you mind?"

"Hmm dem teeth holes...Jonas... did ya get yaself bitten by dat worg o' Grubthar agin? Didn'cha?"

If he wasn't dead already, with a face of composite skin from who-knows-where, she could have sworn she'd seen him blush.

"I swear that fiend is going to cost me more in spare parts than I make from his masters' damn hides!"

"mmm hmmmm" She nods not entirely convinced, taking a long drag on her pipe and puffing blue smoke through her teeth.

"Blasted thing, I should have it sent to the quarter for Haynes to play with." He mutters "My health aside, I need passage to Tranquillen. That should be simple enough?"

She smiles gently at him "Okaaay den, dat be fine wit me... Ya just get on outta dis sun an' ah meet'cha later. Ah gotta get dis ink jus right den write it for ya. Ah give ya dis one on meh, since ah owe ya for dem books still."

He tips the brim of his hat towards her to show gratitude, the normally calm and collected forsaken succumbing to the heat of the Orcish city "My thanks. Since you need to finish things here, and I need to get out of this irrepressible sun before it desiccates me entirely. I'll be in the Broken tusk." Pulling his hat brim further down he meanders off through the bustling crowds and dust, paying particular care to avoid the hungry looking worg loitering by the fish and bone stand who was (he felt) eyeing him up as an alternative to the fish bucket.

Pu'Shala watched him lumber off in with his unwieldy limp, wrestling his cloak with his one good hand. They had been friends within the merchant trade for years now, she liked his slightly formal ways and dry humour, and underneath the facade of distain and moaning he had a good heart, dead, but good. Unlike most of the forsaken she had encountered, Jonas was not afraid of travelling outside of the dank cellars of the northern kingdoms, infact; she would swear that he actually enjoyed it.

* * *

><p>Run<p>

Flee

Branches cracked under her bloodied soles, her soiled tattered gown tearing itself to ribbons as she tore through the undergrowth, branches whipping her skin, the stinging strikes keeping her alert and focused. The blood thumped in her ears and her throat dry as she gulped in large mouthfuls of the fresh air into her lungs.

She had no idea of her previous belongings, her current location or her destination, just simply the adrenaline to keep moving, alive and as far away from that place as possible.

The dappled sunlight blinded her temporarily – her silver eyes had become accustomed to perpetual darkness for too long. Her footing lost, and she tumbles downwards with a yelp, landing awkwardly on her elbows into a small stream. She cries out as the pain jolts through her body, the exclamation reducing into quiet sobbing, the shock of the fall finally releasing her anguish. She lay there, sodden, alone, bruised and crying. The water gently washed over her, clinging her roughly hacked hair to her scalp, rinsing off the dirt and the blood, but it couldn't remove the bruises, scars or the memories.

She could still hear his laughing, his heavy breath on her skin. She could still feel his touch, his icy hands... all over. Mercilessly beating, crushing, probing... tainting her, his endless enjoyment of breaking in his toy. Then when he was physically satisfied, he'd discard her one of the other males to either take blood and flesh samples, sometimes to drain her remaining magic and life force within an inch of her life, just enough to keep her weak, but alive for further sport the next day.

She wept, the tears tumbling onto her dusky lilac skin, joining the stream.

'_Elune help me...'_


	3. Chapter 3

This was it.

The hour he had known was coming for years was finally at hand. A half-full battered leather pack was unceremoniously slung onto the bed, its contents still yet to be finalised. Sharp green eyes scanned the room mentally sorting the useful from the ornate – some writing implements and parchment, a few durable clothes, his design notebook, a pair of robust leather fingerless gloves, his last present from Riselle. He runs his thumb across the soften leather in thought. She was the only one to be fully aware of his trysts to Farstriders Square in the late hours of the night. Long hours of repetitive striking tools had started to generate large calluses on his palms, so she had bought him the gloves as a preventative measure and to better aid hiding his antics from the parents. Riselle had always been the smarter of the two of them he mused as the gloves were stuffed in.

The sun was fast heading behind the horizon, and a lazy golden light bathed the room as he solemnly removed his embroidered shirt , replacing it with a less decorated and more hardy grey shirt and well worn durable trousers. He contemplated taking the garments with him, for the golden elven embroidery depicted fine leaves and swirls that many a tradesman would pay handsomely for such exotic wares... the thought was dismissed as he placed the folded item back into its drawer – he needed no aid from this place, any coin he would have, would be of his own making.

There was one last item to retrieve. A thick set wooden desk with ornate legs, piled with barely opened magical tomes and unused quills loomed at him threateningly. He frowned at the inanimate object. How he hated that desk. The worthless hours he had spent pouring over its useless books and scrolls attempting to force his brain to comprehend and perform fantastical tasks that he knew were simply forever beyond his reach. The entire room really was just a lavishly decorated mock prison in which he had wasted his youth. Although, the time hadn't been completely wasted. On the reverse sides of various arcane exercises and enchantment scrolls, depicted intricate designs of sleek armour. Had anyone been bothered to look at the scribbling, they would have seen great care in the ergonomics and articulation of plate armour – erratic notes marking what material to use and where to obtain maximum strength and beauty for the wearer. With a grunt and a hefty clout to the furniture revealed a loose floorboard, as well as dislodge the well of ink from its nest. It rolled down and shattered on the floor leaving a trail of black-blue splatters in its wake. Within the recess laid two bundles wrapped in fine golden fabric – one tied with a black ribbon, one with a blue, as well as small leather bound book. He takes only the blue ribboned bundle and secrets it within his shirt. Replacing the board and desk as they were, taking care not to disturb the tell-tale ink puddle, he scans the room one final time, lost in the history of his now ex-home. No more would he be forced into hiding, but equally no more would he have the comfort of 'home' and all its usual securities. The concept of loneliness crept into his subconscious chillingly.

A sharp tapping breaks his spiralling line of thought and he is surprised to see a small red swiftwing, common to the area , land at the open window hop about on the stone ledge his little beady eyes questioning the room, with a sharp chirrup, soar away as swiftly as it came into the warm oncoming night. Rotharian grins slightly at first, then broadly at the significance of the gesture. Grabbing his backpack heading out the door, more confidence in his gait, he turns and offers a slight wave at the now empty window "... and goodbye to you too Mr swiftwing"

* * *

><p>Two empty high backed seats opposite stared back at Ravahra, silently mocking her singularity as the quiet clatter of cutlery announced it was mid dinner. Her parents flanked either end of the long decorated table not covered in as many splendid dishes as it once did, but a feast fit enough to grace should any high quality company happen to stop by. She quietly poked steamed albacore and fruit around her plate noting ironically, its dead eyes looked how she felt inside. Knowing deep down what the answer is before she even asks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, quietly<p>

"Father, is Rotharian not joining us tonight?"

The following silence thickens her blood as the blonde male glares at his wineglass on its way to his lips.

"No. Nor again."

The elegant lady at the opposing end of the table gives the slightest of nods in understanding to her remaining daughter and then sips her own wine in quiet resignation.

"..Oh..." She resumes poking her fish with much less interest than before, as a small tear wells in her eyes.

* * *

><p>Ravahra stared out into the moonless night from her large bay window at nothing in particular, the old solid knotted tree had grown so close it practically had invited itself into her quarters. But she liked it that way, all three of the siblings had liked the outside – the wind on their faces as they ran about the grounds, playing with the crispy rust coloured leaves of perpetual lazy ends of summer, the girls especially had an eye for the flora of their homeland. An arrogant cricket chirped in the red flowering bushes below challenging the equally loud crickets residing in the curiously floating golden urn of trailing white flowers. She puts her arms on the ledge and rests her chin pouting. Why couldn't be like the old days again? Fun and simple, when they were together as children...<p>

"_Rav... RAV! Look at THIS!" A muddy beaming boy with long messy chestnut hair comes tearing up to a pair of girls on the lawn who had been previously inspecting the petals of a large white flower in one of the many flower urns. He proudly presents the younger of the girls with his clasped dirty hands and wide smile, careful not to smudge their claret pinafores. She frowns at him and the 'gift'_

"_Is it a spider?" she asks fearfully, backing off and eyes widening at the memory of the LAST gift Roth had brought her._

"_I thought you liked animals?" he jeers at her fear_

"_Well, not icky ones with horrid legs and pointy teeth... and..." she flusters off. The elder of the girls absentmindedly toying with her long braid chuckling at the other two._

"_No no, I promise, you'll like this one" he sheepishly grins back. The trio bend in slightly closer to see as he cracks open his palms. A pair of blue butterflies burst forth in a flutter of wings causing the girls to squeal in delight and giggles. One of the insects decides to eventually rest on one of the white flowers batting its wings lazily in the sun. Carefully the children creep closer to peer at its elaborate wings wide eyed._

"_Aaaw Riselle! You made it fly away!" Ravahra sulks after her sisters turn involved a twig and a gentle poking of the bug._

"_Nevermind, because the butterfly can't save you from ..." The elder girl sticks two twigs in the sides of her mouth like mock tusks, hunches and raises her arms in to a looming shape "..der bad voodoo of da trolls hahahahahh" And chases after the younger girl who is merrily screaming from glee, fleeing round the flower pots on the lush lawn. Eager to join the new game the boy leaps in save the damsel in distress with a substitute 'sword'-gardening trowel and 'shield' -box lid from his 'armoury' - the servants hut hidden round behind several trees out of sight, more than likely the same location he had found the offending spider earlier._

"_Fear not fair maiden! For the glory of Quel'thelas! I will... oops!" _

_*SMASH* _

_The boy rubs his head – a collision with the one of the urns had just proven that little elf boys are more resilient than garden ornaments... _

Ravahra smiles slightly to herself at the memory then sighs pondering 'What happened to us?'

A strange rustling in the tree next to her window shakes her awake out of her thoughts as a figure emerges out of the shadows of the branches, treading carefully along one of the larger branches, settling on one which could withhold his weight right by her window. She gasps and he raises a finger to his lips to indicate the need for hushed tones.

"Ro..Rotharian? I thought you had gone?" She smiles in relief at her brother.

"Well, I have... I mean, I will. But I couldn't go without seeing you first" he rubs the back of his neck nervously – a habits he'd always had when put on the spot and was looking for the 'right' words to say. She casts her eyes downwards and the smile falls "So it's true then? You are leaving as-well?"

"You know I can't sit here and do nothing Rav" The childish nicknames had still stuck to the now grown graceful priestess before him "Being here, stagnating when I could be doing something worthwhile."

"Riselle?"

He nods with a furrowed brow "Father won't try to find her, caught up in his hierarchy socialite bubble, and Mother is already beside herself with all this. She knows something about this, but I won't pressure her. Riselle can't have gone far yet, and besides..." He brushes the hair from her face and tilts her chin up with a finger to look her in the eyes with his boyish grin "...now you're the prize priestess of the manor, you've long out grown the need for me to save you anymore."

She sniffs and playfully slaps his hand away "oh... stop it." She sighs, her smile returning.

"But honestly Roth, where could she have gone? Do you have any idea where to start? And how are you going to live? Have you thought about any of this?" She fired the thoughts at him rapidly as her clever mind leapt from thought to thought. He raises his hands up in mock defence.

"Shhh, just trust me on this one. You're right, we don't know where she has gone, but I might know someone who does, people just don't disappear, there is always someone who will know something, and this way if I go, I won't be compromising Mother and her position any more. I thought I'd check about town first, then South. Belil mentioned something of a disturbance towards Tranquillen..."

She cuts him off shrilly before remembering they were supposed to be keeping quiet

"You CAN'T ME... you can't mean towards... but they say it is swarming with the undead! Oh Roth you can't!" almost pleading as she tugs on his sleeve in earnest. He gently covers her hand with his and gives a resigned smile

"Rav, you know I'd do anything for you and Riselle. Well the time has come to prove that. I've tried to look after you two as much as I could, and fel knows you've done more than your fair share of looking after me! And... ah... oh come on Rav don't look at me like that, I'll be fine" He rubs his neck again as she looks at him with watery eyes "Better than! I'll find Riselle and we'll be together again, without any of..well.. and... Here" He pulls out the blue-ribboned parcel and hands it to her "Since I can't be here and, well, it might be useful and ready for... but..." He stumbles over his words then hugs her tightly and kisses her on the head. She releases him slowly "Just, be careful" he cheekily winks back before deftly dropping to the ground into the shadows. She tries to pick out his figure moving through the grounds but soon the darkness has all but swallowed his image into the night, only his footsteps on stone growing fainter.

She was worried for him, for her sister. She had read about the changing world, the stories from the city about the writhing undead, and worse- those who had fallen to the corruption of magic itself become dependent husks of their former selves. But she had not been blind for all these years, she knew that Rotharian had skill with a sword, and could best most in displays of sheer brute strength. True, he wasn't the quickest of minds, but his heart was loyal. If anyone could find Riselle, it would be typically Rotharian, and he had yet to break his word to either of them. She comforted herself with these thoughts still staring into the shadows.

"Oops" *SMASH* the footsteps hurry away quicker. Ravahra chuckled, certain things would never change.

* * *

><p>In a whirl of her own thoughts, Ellaoris heard the crash of breaking pottery out in the courtyard echo through the window, but did not rise to see its maker. Her satin shoes, stained with the black ink from when she had burst into the empty room before dinner to find nothing but memories and his hollow chair. She just sat on dishevelled bed of her only sons abandoned room, holding his purple embroidered shirt tight to her chest, as tears silently fell down her cheeks.<p>

"Please..." she whispered "Please let my children be safe..."


	4. Chapter 4

Trudging onwards in the heat, the dust accumulated uncomfortably on his already parched skin. His hat and scarf over his nose and would-be lips, keeping the worst of the red sand of Orgrimmar out of his vision as he doggedly walked on towards the cool shade of the tavern entrance, glad to finally be out of the hot sun. Even with his wide brimmed hat and cloak he could feel the heat penetrating and sucking out what little moisture he still contained.

Orgrimmar was a busy city, constantly bustling with crowds who came from afar to buy and sell exotic wares; you could buy almost anything you could imagine down the dusty dirty heaving drag of the city bazaar. And the key profitable word for Jonas Dredgewood here was 'almost'. There were still items that were too taboo and shady deals with shadier items could be found in darkened corners with hushed whispers and suspicious eyes. For all intents and purposes, he was just another materials dealer – a few hides from here, some gems from there, some fanciful spices, some unusual delicacies and sweets – all earning him good coin, but some of his deals for the Undercity and its emissaries across Azeroth ran into what any sane person would consider 'the morally ambiguous'. There were research reports to return, and supplies to deliver. Apothecaries at far away stations with their heads too consumed with their various projects at hand to leave, but in dire need of reagents. Not to mention the constant need of 'repair parts' when said research had gone awry. It was a lucrative business indeed, if you get the right things at the right time, and particularly the right deals, especially with the goblins. 'Anything and everything' was his personal motto. Never to shun the possibility of a coin – his customers were quite varied in their requirements, and often caused him to travel far. Jonas' professionalism never let him enquire about the use of the items he procured, but he often wondered, amused at how many secretive plots would be unravelled should he tell any authorities of any 'unusual activity' he had participated in...

Although, mentally thumbing through his carefully coded customer notebook – written in such a fashion that only really Jonas could understand the 'real' orders, he was starting to regret his current deal with "Twenty-Seven". In the beginning it had been through the usual routes, Haynes had put him onto a lead with a remote researcher currently out-posted in Elf country. Rumour had it that this Apothecary has extradited himself and was now working for a rather flighty and influential Blood elf lady. Elves were a strange lot, they always seemed to want exotic ingredients for something, even just for cooking, and due to their aloof and proud nature everything had to be done quietly and was always paid well.

It had been simple enough items, some vials of distilled plasma here, a few blight crystals there, inevitably a request for a finger or three. They were a good reliable customer who always put in a nice large repeat order, with some differences on the side. He'd been only too happy to obtain the random artefacts ~ it gave him a certain exclusiveness above all other merchants which he liked. "Twenty-Seven" possibly the most unemotional corpse Jonas had met since awakening, had almost cried when he had brought him much desired (and illegal) tome 'A Discourse in Fire, Salt and Sanguine" back from the depths of the highlands – rumoured to be the research findings of Victor Blythe, a notorious dabbler in Fel magics. Lately though, the side requirements had been increasing in frequency and a little too suspect and elaborate, too dark even for Jonas' liking. With a sigh he decided he'd have to strike them off the list. If they were getting into 'that' sort of business, then it would only be a matter of time before things would be traced back to him: he'd be roped into long talks with the authorities and have to provide explanations, paperwork... information...best to leave "Twenty-Seven" while the going was good. Shame really, he lamented, but he simply drew the line under obtaining live produce, and not the sort that was easily portable too! All that running around, traps, spells... it was far too much like proper fighting and just simply wasn't financially viable for him these days, certainly not in his current state as a semi crippled merchant. "Twenty-Seven" would have to find his own cursed 'vessels' or whatever he called them, Jonas was nobodies Hunter for hire...he wasn't even a damn hunter: bloody animals were vicious, all of them! He took a swing with his foot at a nearby rat as he hobbled into the tavern.

Pulling up a stool at the rough wooden bar and hailing the grouchy looking bar Orc for a measure of the local swill, he sighed at the stump of his missing right arm. He had liked that hand. The fingers had been nice and long - possibly belonging to a musician previously; there had been slight calluses on the finger tips, which was a delightful novelty since usually repair hands had the flesh nibbled away by small beasts (or fish had the previous owner fallen to a wet demise) and showed only bone. It had been glorious holding a quill with proper tension when writing up Snowys' shopping list of treats from Kalimdor... but now that wretched fleabag had chomped it off.

'_Ah ...yes... I must not forget her pineapple Bonbons this time'_ he mused, rubbing some oil into his parched facial skin to keep it supple. An additional favour of some sugary treats only sold in the goblin slums of Orgrimmar would keep Snowy sweet herself that he was 'her' merchant and then she would never enquire about extra 'errands' he ran. Her sister Jeri had been much the same when they'd done their first business meet; a trinket here and there, something shiny and she'd been all over the deal with a triumphant smile on those painted lips. A strange little green race -goblins, he pondered. The oversized wooden tankard slammed in-front of him, slopping some of its contents onto the bar

"That'll be four silver"

Jonas dropped a small pouch on the bar "That should be more than enough in there, Morag. I get the feeling I'll be here a while, so just keep them coming"

The burly Orc grinned as he picked up the coins and stuffed them into a pocket on his particularly stained apron "Business or pleasure this time?"

"It's always a pleasure here..." Jonas dryly replies slowly waggling his stump as proof. The Orc guffaws loudly at the forsaken "Well, you just wave when you want a refill skinny." Amused at his own joke, he resumes attending to the other clients who had just entered. Jonas watched them with a beady eye. If Jeri was here she would have surely called them... what was it...'shiny shit', a loose term she used for eager young adventurers with all the gear, but no idea. He chuckled into the tankard to himself. How on Azeroth had he managed to wind up in the company of such a gaggle of goblins, but he was very glad he did. As with most things, it had started by being in the right place at the right time.

* * *

><p>"Don't you think it's beautiful out here?" The white haired goblin lady wondered.<p>

"Hmmph, strange idea of beautiful! Being surrounded by death, decay and headstones!" Replied her sister.

"I mean the stars you nugget! You never see stars like this in the centre of town back home"

Jeri had to admit it, the stars did shine brighter here than back in Orgrimmar, and, once you got away from the constant smell of corpses, the air was fresher too. She popped the cork on the last bottle and topped up their glasses with the dark red wine.

"We're nearly out already?!" Jeri pouted at the strewn empties that surrounded the gaudy pink picnic blanket and parasol the girls had set down just outside the walls of the abandoned grounds of Lordaron castle. It was a good sport, a grassy knoll near to the main entrance of the Undercity, sheltered from the wind where they could pursue their favourite sport – people watching and drinking. In true goblin style, Jeri had tried to add a little 'style' to their small event by bringing some Zehvra cushions and 'fairy' lights to adorn the pink hearted parasol with. It was a token gesture of a 'hen do' for Snowy, as she was due to be married the next day to Beedle Gyromax, self appointed 'Fastest Cart driver in Eastern Kingdoms'. It had been a swift love affair and short notice wedding announcement (a little too short for Jeri's liking), which had resulted in only Jeri out of the three other sisters being able to attend to prove witness – Jewels couldn't leave the Pink stocking unattended and Sparkle had been heard from since her departure to Northrend a month ago. So once again, it was up to Jeri to save the day and provide a party for Snowy, because it was unheard of NOT to have a celebration, at least in Jeri's family.

Snowy pulls out an overly gemmed pocket watch to check the time. Jeri eyed it carefully, the majority of stones on it looked like fancy glass, but the blue one in the middle looked real enough. Jeri had an eye for these things and expensive tastes – often lamented by Jatfast.

"Hmm..." Snowy thought for a moment and fiddled with her white hair "...we'll see if we can get some off of any travelling pretty boys who come through while we finish this one. If not, we'll relocate in town"

"Alright" Jeri prayed someone would come through though, she really didn't like being about living corpses. Their weird humour, awful smell and the cracking of bones on stone as they walked. It was unnatural and gave her the creeps "Doesn't it bother you though? The constant ..." Jeri fumbles for the right word "mmm...deadness... about the place?"

"Not at all! I tell you Jeri, once you get over the initial repulsion and once you get used to the smell, this place is a gold mine! My poor sweetie is run off his feet with business constantly going between here and Silverpine with deliveries on that wagon of his"

"Deliveries? What sort of deliveries? What is it exactly that Beedle does? Must be something worthwhile to keep you of all people hooked" Jeri probed. She couldn't imagine anything of worth in this decaying place, apart from the wine, the wine was good. But only because the forsaken could keep it for so long in their deep cellars. Snowy looked a little shifty. "You promise you won't tell?"

Jeri agreed earnestly

"Well, we're in the business of coffin CONTENT hauling for the forsaken, since, you know... they can't exactly make more of themselves by the normal means. The forsaken are in constant need of parts for repair work and they pay out well if the goods are of quality"

Jeri widened her eyes with a gasp "Snowy! You... He... That's genius!"

"I know! Isn't it?!" Snowy gloated. "It's practically money for nothing! As long as the body isn't complete mush we earn a fair amount of gold, even for partial ones! There is a catch though – over here, we're not the only ones doing it. So the competition is a bit stiff in finding supplies" (she giggles at her own joke)

Jeri laughs with a snort "Shame I can't sell the pile of 'accidents' we have stinking up the joint just outside Ratchet..."

They both pause thoughtfully to admire the stars, each took a slug out of their wine glasses simultaneously, before turning to one other excitedly exclaiming at the same time:

"I could sell them to you for the Undercity!"

"You could sell them to me for the Undercity!"

Their eyes shined with goblin lustre as they could smell the opportunity of cash, the ideas and flew fast.

"But how could I get them to you?"

"Well we would get paid per corpse, price varying on quantity and quality of course. By ship would be too slow, and Zeppelins are full of damage potential"

"Couldn't we factor in the costs for a Mage portal? I know it's expensive – but we'd be providing freshest delivery!" Jeri's business mind was firmly on, mentally linking people she knew and what she could trade to get what she wanted. If Snowy could provide the opening, she could export graveyards from the entire barrens! She could smell the coins right now.

"Oh yes! That would work!"

"And Jatfast could deliver them to you once or twice a month..."

"Wait a minute! JATFAST?" Snowy stopped her sister dead in her tracks "I'll not be doing any business with THAT weasel of yours"

Jeri's infamous mood turned quicker than a flipped silver coin. Her face glowered with anger as she forced a toothy smile, loaded with verbal venom "...weasel? And what exactly do you mean by that sister dearest?"

Snowy, unfortunately for the family, seemed to be made from the same cloth as Jeri when it came to flaring tempers. She flicked her hair agitatedly "You know exactly what I mean. I told you about his 'ways' and what he did. Skulking in the bushes at Miss Jade and you believe whatever Kodo-crap excuse he fed you!"

"My Jatfast would NEVER lie to me! He is a good man"

"He is not Jeri! He's untrustworthy and that's why I won't do it!"

"I can't believe I'm hearing this! That's it!.. you're jealous! That Jatfast and I are soooo in love"

"Am not! Certainly not over him!" sneered Snowy

"Are too!"

"Am not!"

"Are tooooo!"

The squabbling girls didn't notice the dark figure approach from beyond the gates, drop his large bag against a wall and sit himself down near their discarded bottles, his wide brimmed hat pulled down until he introduced himself in a dark dry voice.

"Ladies, ladies... If I'm not mistaken, you should not be quarrelling at a celebration?"

The two women stopped and slowly turned to the uninvited guest. He was a forsaken, garbed in a leather hat, a scarf wrapped around his face, long cloak which exposed simple yet well made green shirt and trousers. His boots too, although scuffed, looked rather expensive – a travelling salesman perhaps? His large bag would indicate so. Snowy and Jeri's mother had taught them with a wagging green finger _'Girls, you can tell a lot about a man by the shoes he wears!'_. Jeri was the first to speak. Composing herself in the most authorative way she knew possible "I'm sorry, this is a private party, and we're in the middle of business negotiations"

The forsaken nodded slowly, "Really? 'Negotiations' these days... I wouldn't want to break etiquette."

"Yes, and we'd thank you kindly to push off!" She got braver in her replies to the undead. Irritated at his pompous attitude and intrusion on, what she considered, quality family time with her sister.

"Well then, before I go, I don't suppose I could offer you some apology rum for interrupting your evening?" He slyly pulls a bottle from his backpack "This one is quite the favourite down in Booty bay, please, allow me..." He offers to fill their glasses, watching their stunned faces. It was Snowys time to pipe up glaring at Jeri

"Thank you. Please excuse my *sister*, she isn't exactly a good judge of character. I'd love some"

"Hey HEY! Just because you have a problem with MY husband, doesn't mean I'm wrong on everyone!" Jeri eyeballed the forsaken man up and down "How do we know there's nothing wrong with that stuff? You might drug us and drag us away somewhere to do horrible things!"

Jonas chuckled, his scarf falling down to reveal his patched face "Quite right, quite right. I could..." He leaves a dramatic pause "...but I won't. Here, you can open and check the contents yourself. The bottle is still sealed with Skindle's mark and not tampered with."

He passes the bottle to the agitated redheaded goblin who eagerly snatches it and begins to inspect it all over, checking the wax for re-seals, tapping the bottom to see if it is false. Before eventually looking surprised at the genuine article and handing it back to Jonas to pour "...Hmmph Ok then, just a small one though..."

"Very thorough. You must be a true business woman" He noticed Jeri trying not to smile while he cracks the wax before pouring out generous measures for the goblin ladies. "Might I enquire to what we are toasting?"

Snowy blushed and proffered her hand to show off a ring with an oversized sapphire set in it, with a batting of long eyelashes "MY wedding."

"Ah Congratulations. And the disagreement was about your choice of mate?"

Snowy knocked back the contents of her glass and smacked her lips "No, MY sweetie is perfect. It was ..hic.. because we had a great idea we can't use because I'd have to use her mate..."

"Because *I'm* too busy with other affairs to personally deliver things to you! Jatfast would be good and on time and keeping it within the family..." Jeri cut in; they both started to attempt to put their points across to Jonas eagerly, each trying to gain the upper hand of the argument without accidentally spilling any secrets.

"..AND a Goblin I wouldn't trust as far as I can throw him! With his grubby mitts all over my merchandise, who knows what he'd do to it..."

"BUT he wouldn't do anything other than get them from Ratchet to here, perfectly packaged, on time and under budget!"

"He'd drop me in it with inferior items and bolt with the money before I'd even checked out the wares!"

"And you'd say anything he'd brought over was inferior just so you could pay him less and make him look bad"

"I simply refuse to have anything to do with that man!"

"And simply refuse the chance of good money?" Jeri slyly ended, and drained her own glass. Snowy bit her lip, frustrated. Jeri was right; this was too good a deal to let slip, but having to work with Jatfast?

Jonas stealthily recharged their glasses, and took advantage of the situation "It seems to me you need items delivered, but cannot agree on the reception arrangements? Perhaps you need a third party, who could independently verify the goods and payment. Now, would it not be convenient if there was someone who had an idea of travelling, and the cost of such things who could be an impartial voice?" He pours some of Skindle's Rum into a cup from his belt, and drinks it in one "Well, it was a pleasure ladies. I must be on my way, these other bottles and daggers won't deliver themselves"

Jeri's ears pricked up "Daggers?" Daggers simply had to be her ultimate weakness. Being a rogue they fitted nicely into her small hands, and often they were the most lavish of weapons, sometimes gemmed, or made from precious metals. They made her heart race!

"Why yes, quite ornate ones actually. Highbourne by design I believe" He tugs his scarf back up "Would you like to see?" He fumbles in his oversized backpack, pulling out a small parcel. He tugs at the string to unwrap a long silver etched, thin bladed dagger with sweeping edge and turquoise pommel. He hands it to Jeri whose eyes widened in admiration for the item

"Oh, oooh! The scrollwork here..and its weight is feather like!" She gushed over the artefact" How is it that you're in possession of such a nice knife... and fancy rum?"

"Quite simple, I am a travelling merchant my dear" Jonas replied dryly "I buy and trade in

anything and everything on Azeroth."

"All over Azeroth? Didn't think your kind went too far from...erm.. 'home'?" She tried to word it as inoffensively as possible, hoping to get a price on the prize she held in her hands.

Snowy, had been unusually quiet for a few minutes as the rum had been taking affect – she never could hold her drink as well as Jeri, and had never really shared her love of weaponry, no matter how shiny. hic'd loudly and announced with a finger at Jonas "Him!" The other two waited for the next outburst.

"He could do it! If Jatfast has to deliver them, he can collect them for me. He'd even know what to look out for judging by the stitches on his wrist he's...hic.. had a few replacements himself."

Jeri looked incredulously at Snowy for spilling such information, then at the empty imported rum bottle, to the elaborate silver knife in her hand and finally back to Snowy who nodded back at her as the idea sank in. A smile began to spread across Jeri's painted lips as she turned to Jonas raising an eyebrow mischievously "You must be good. Let's negotiate..."

He grinned under his scarf "Jonas Dredgewood, at your service"


	5. Chapter 5

"But you don't understand Vel, I HAVE to be there! Everyone is going to be there! He'll be there!" Alyssya whined. Usually all she had to do was pull 'that' face, all forlorn with her big eyes and pouty lips to get her way, but never worked on Velandra.

"Well go then! I'll even lend you my hawkstrider to get you there if it's that important to you"

"Do you have any idea how crass it would be to turn up alone at one of Lord Saltherils parties? I'd be the laughing stock! Oh why can't you get Suntouched to take me? Or you come with me? Please Vel!" She pleaded with her friend, making large eyes that usually got her way.

"You know very well Alyssya that I'm far too busy here and Suntouched has been summoned to the royal court this evening and can't even get that delivery done himself. And fel-knows how I'm supposed to get that down to the event myself. Look I'll see what turns up, if it's a quiet night I might pull in one of the girls to cover for me."

"Fine..."

Alyssya Dawntreader sank into her chair sulking. Her pretty face screwed up in stubborn self pity about not being able to go to the party, and not being able to attract the eye of one of the most eligible men in Silvermoon. She had had it all planned out: To arrive with the well known Vinemaster Suntouched, she would be wearing the palest sea blue chiffon dress, embroidered with silver and darker sapphire threads, the shoulders held together with silver cord so that the dress itself was backless to show off her slender waist, she would wear her ebony hair curled up and studded with gemmed pins in the style of stars, and she was going to dazzle the Lord and make her the envy of all the girls there. But now it was in ruin, she wasn't going and wasn't able to impress anyone. It wasn't fair! She swirled the wine in her tall glass and sulked over the remains of her shattered evening.

It wasn't the flashiest of inns within the city, nestled in the backstreets. But the mood was one of comfort and familiarity. The hostess was no longer a young girl, but was still beautiful in her prime, the wine was good and the chairs comfortable. Where someone could quietly come and drink in peace, or pull up a chair to a local and talk the night away. It was one of the few places in Silvermoon where class rarely came into play – all were equal under Velandra's watch at the Silvermoon city Inn. The name was uninspired, but their wares were legendary as this was the place of business for the cities most popular vinemaster, one Master Suntouched. Many an envoy from the noble houses was sent to procure supplies for feasts and the like. Because of which, Velandra's small yet comfortable establishment was privvy to all sorts of information, often split by the envoys who, naturally were given a free 'gift' from the barmistress for their efforts. There was very little that could go on in and around Silvermoon without her knowing about it, or who, or where. It was because of this control she could shelter some of the select few from the harshness of life, or ease them in the right direction. She surveys the population of her inn as a lighthouse scans the sea, ever vigilant. A couple in the corner courting on their second bottle, his hand strokes her long blonde hair while she giggles at the attention naively...he will probably make his move soon and request for one of the rooms, again. The older weathered man by the book case, the usual suspect – he will order two more cocktails ('lightwells' seemed his favourite -a heady mix of spirits and fresh peach juice) swiftly followed by a strong coffee to aid his meandering way home at end of hours. Her slim friend with long black hair curled into an elaborate style who pouts as she plays with a ring, watching people come and go before flouncing upstairs. The two young lads at the end of the bar, one with a chestnut ponytail always drawing in his book while his blonde friend chatted about the day and bemoaned the guards teasing. Belil was the blonde elf's name, he was a good sort, gullible but a good heart. She chuckled to herself, poor Belil had often been tricked into some manual labour for the good of the inn. She was sure he knew, but never minded, or even enjoyed the fact he was being useful. Those two were frequent visitors to the inn. Both obviously had their reasons for hiding out here, most people did. But these two were reliable, always willing to keep the peace and turf out any undesirables, they were useful to have around. Plus they made her laugh. Her emerald eyes watched them carefully as she polished glasses and put them back in their holding racks.

A low whistle escapes Belil's lips.

"...So you're heading out then? Well best of luck friend, is all I can say. I've never gone further than the Eversong river myself, and that was years ago." He quaffs the last of his drink. "Hey, Velandra! Another two over here!"

The proud looking woman swathed in purple silks brandishes a broad smile to the pair and uncorks another dusty green bottle, her elaborate bangles jangling against the glass.

"You boys celebrating tonight then?"

"Of sorts. Roth here is leaving us for the wild yonder" He claps his friend heartily across the back causing Rotharians pencil to leave a thick black coursing though the page in his ever present notebook.

She peers over the bar as she refills the goblets. "Sure thing darlin'. What you drawing there?"

Rotharian adds a few more quick flecked line with his pencil to the delicate butterfly design before hooking an errant lock behind his ear and looking up "It's the dagger I recently made for my youngest sister"

"It's really pretty, with that narrow wavy blade, very delicate."

He smiles appreciatively "I was thinking of adjusting the design, making the blade short, straighter..here.. and here. Perhaps some more weight to the pommel. More functional for throwing and the like. Although she'd never use it like that, but I like veratility"

Belil sticks a curious head over and casts a wary eye on the design. "Hmm.. never really a fan of daggers, too underhanded or girlish for my liking." He quaffs deeply from his glass and directs his gaze to the barmistress "but you'd be hard pushed to find a finer jointed breastplate than those made by this chap. Seriously! That last piece felt like I was hardly wearing anything at all, not like that tray Bermarrin tried to pass off."

Rotharian grinned at his friends praise "Now Bel, Bermarrin's gear is fine, he was pushed for time -and he's the only one supplying the guards at the moment."

"Well he wouldn't be if they let you do it"

"I can't. It's not right for me to do so." He changed the subject back to armour, uncomfortable with the way the conversation was leading "Anyway, the jointed thing just made sense to me. Our fighting styles are completely different to that of the Brutish Orcs Emissarys we've seen. Their armour is to compliment their tactics – heavy, bladed, their entire body is an extension of the great-axes they carry. Now ours – lithe, supple with light blades that have slit an opponent when weakness is ..."

"Yea yea.." Belil cuts in with a jovial dismissive wave "We don't need to know why! Just be happy we think it's just good! Still, it'll be a shame to lose your skills to a hungry Lynx or worse, so be careful with that head of ideas of yours" He ruffles Rotharians hair roughly laughing

"Ah get off me!" As they mock fight, making the bar decidedly noiser. Velandra laughs with them and recharges their goblets once more. "So then, where you leaving us for then?"

Chestnut hair fell over his face as he traced his butterfly design lightly with the tip of the pencil, he didn't want to broadcast anything about his family, Riselles disappearance or Ravharas strict lessons, so deeply had it been ingrained not to speak of anything – so he never said more than he had to "there's... there's someone I need to find."

She raises her eyebrow and flashes a knowing look to Rotharian "Someone... and you need to find her eh?" He looks surprised and quizzically at her, he didn't mention a 'she' did he? "Don't look surprised sweetness. I see things, I hear things and I think you and I might be of help to one another" She takes a sip out of his glass knowingly.

"How do you mean 'help'? Last 'help' I heard you needed, you roped Belil here digging you out a new room in your cellar for free." He cautiously provokes, covering his question cleverly, Belil nodding furiously in agreement, unaware at the conversational undertones.

"Ah that's not true" She sweetly drawls "that's paid off his wine tab"

Belil splutters "Wait.. what? That was supposed to be for last months rent!"

She chuckles and strokes Belil's chin affectionately "No, no, sweetness, however, I *do* have that new stove to be fitted in the kitchen". He mutters and pushes his glass forward with a sulky face

"Well, if I've already paid for it I'll have another! It was surely big enough cellar." Belil mutters into his glass half heartedly. They all knew he liked 'helping' Velandra out, it was a strange symbiotic relationship they had, but it worked.

Rotharian swirls his own wine "So, what's this favour?" He could almost hear Velandra purring in victory, as if she were about to play a winning chess move.

"Well, Lord Saltheril is hosting another of his infamous parties, the vinemaster was supposed to deliver the wine for this splendid affair to keep the mood and spirits high, but alas master Suntouched is far too busy to attend..."

"And delivering this wine helps me how?"

"Well dear boy, only the best socialites and elite go there. If there were to be information about a certain lady and circumstances, it would be at that party"

He mused on this. She was right though, and he no real leads right now other than Riselle was not anywhere in the city. "But aren't those sorts of things invite only, to keep the ..erm.. undesirables out?" he gestures to himself "I'm hardly the talk of Silvermoon highest circles." A slight understatement on his part, he had endeavoured to avoid all such gossip in the past. But needs must this time, and he had already extracted himself from his Fathers domineering clutches. As long as he didn't mention his name, the family could still be kept 'clean'. A nagging thought constantly reminded him to keep low, the less people knew of him, the easier it would be to find Riselle.

"And that is where you are helping me, I could get anyone to deliver this wine, but I need someone 'special' to escort my friend who was _dreadfully_ disappointed that she wasn't going to be able to go tonight"

"Seems simple enough.. what's the catch?"

Velandra winks at him playfully "Oh, there's no catch... although the party is due south of the city, and reports coming in are unclear on how large the rising threat may be. At its worst, my friend might want you to change your shirt, or not wear one at all..."

His eyes widen slightly, and Belil choked into his wine laughing. Velandra sauntered towards the stairwell and calls up

"Alyssya! Come down, your evening is still on!"

The black haired girl skitters down the stairs excitedly "You'll go Vel?"

"Not me... him"

The girls eyes fall upon Rotharian and squeals in glee "Really? You got him to go with me?" She is beside him before he can even blink, her green eyes dancing as she eyes her prize top to bottom pinching his muscles, clearly unashamed at her lecherous ways "Oh Vel, how did you do it? This is perfect! Do you still have that wonderful black shirt of yours I've seen you in? Oh Felicity is going to be green when I turn up!" She gushes turning to her friend.

"He is isn't he?" Velandra lazily purrs at Alyssyas elation "Well, the crates are loaded into wagon with some extras to keep Lord Satheril sweet."

"Oh I must get changed! I'll meet you outside before sundown!" And with that she practically skipped up the inn stairs, ecstatic that the evening had been better than resurrected. Slightly stunned by what had just occurred, a momentary pause between the three of them was broken by Belil snorting out loud with laughter.

"Oh my... wow... hahaha.. That's not quite what you had in mind, was it when you wanted to get out the city. I guess you will have to be careful of hungry creatures – just not the lynx! ..." He trails off muffling his giggles into his hand. Velandra gives the boys a reassuring look

"Now, don't spoil this chance, Alyssya is a very dear friend of mine so look after her..."

Rotharian rubbed the back of his neck with a sigh and a smile "Ah, it's on my way anyway. Is there anywhere I can scrub up? "

"... you'd best wear your armour Roth! ..." Belil chirps in, they all laugh as they finish the last of the bottle, toasting to the next time they meet.


	6. Chapter 6

It was hot. Too damn hot for Crank. The sweat ran from his failing comb-over bald head and dripped off his long green hooked nose onto the dusty floor, before instantaneously evaporating under the high sun. It was really no day for the zeppelin engines to go wrong, but go wrong they had and it was Cranks job to fix it. His boss had been very vocal about the situation, 'insistent' the sneering bespectacled assistant had slimily grinned at Crank before skulking off back to their deckchairs and poolside drinks back at 'the office'. And yet here he was, scorching his goblin behind over a broken engine, elbow deep in oil and cracked sprockets.

'Ere, Buster? Hand me that doo-hicky wrencher!'

Buster, nose deep in some dirty magazine half heartedly rummaged in a tool box next to his chair and lazily tossed the desired tool to Crank without taking his eyes off the page. Crank never really understood Buster's fascination for written filth. The pictures, sure, very nice, Miss Emerald rather pushed his pistons! That skimpy leather bikini and boots all over that lovely shiny mechanohog... oooh it made him all gooey just thinking about her. But Buster liked to think of himself as an 'in-chu-lek-tual', and that the words made the pictures in his head. Buster could keep his head pictures from his favourite author "Quickie McFingers" to himself; give Crank good old proper pictures to see anyday!

He wrestled his potbelly into a gap between the fan and the driveshaft to get a closer look at the problem. _'Slap me with a sack of spuds, who flew this thing? A Kodo?' _He pondered the tangled mess of scrap metal before him. Several cogs had their teeth completely worn smooth, a main pipeline had been punctured by a fractured fan blade... he tutted at the mess "Some 'hiccup' they had on the last flight! Looks like they bounced their way over from Gromgol if you ask me! ...Oil connector size four!"

Buster grunted in response, shuffled over to a large box of various tubes, rummaging before slapping the length of black rubber into a grumbling Cranks outstretched hand, all actions executed with his nose still in his magazine.

"Well, that's got to go... and that... Hmmmm...aaaaaand this DEFINITELY shouldn't be loose.." He gives a wide pipe attached to what seemed to be several metal cubes welded together, a hefty

waggle. Which, to Cranks dismay, was the last thing the pipe needed: an almighty "CRUNNK!" followed by "Aaagh!" sounded as the item split cleanly into several pieces, covering the goblin in a mixture of oil and various engine fluids. Crank extracted himself as swiftly as possible from the engine and shook himself off like an oily dog, suitably irritated at the developments of the day and gave the engine a swift kick, only to stub his toe and hop about leaving dirty puddles in his wake yelping. Buster peeked over the pages at his superior, barely stifling a giggle before asking

"The Turbulating-Booster packed up then?"

Wiping his hands and face on a rag Crank gruffly replied "Yea. Seems that way, as well as at least half the Altitude windings too. We got a spare casing for that?"

Buster finally closed his magazine and sauntered out of his corner in the shade to what looked like a small outbuilding, stuffed to the brim with boxes, half assembled engines and whatnots. After some loud rummaging a muffled "No Boss" was heard. Crank frowned "Any Cogs type A, size sixteen... or possibly an eighteen would do?"

Rummaging... "No Boss"

"A Lump end fuser?"

"No Boss"

"Giggity fastner or Loopback set?"

"No...wait.. half a loopback"

"Half's no good. Do we even have a box of dropnuts?!"

"Nah Boss, we used the last of those on that mess they brought in from Dustwallow Marsh"

"Well how in blazin' Fel are we supposed to fix all their crap with no parts?!" Crank steamed stomping about still trying to wipe the gunk from his dishevelled comb-over "No, that's it, we can't work like this. Buster - write a list of what I said we needs and get it to Sneeve, he loves his paperwork and I'm sure all that poolside air ain't good for him, oh and stick our labour time prices up in the quote for the inconvenience..." The apprentice smiled at this "So an afternoon in our office then boss?"

"You got that right. Mechanics meeting at the end of the bar in the Broken Tusk! I'll get you a tall cool mug o' swill waiting for you when you get back from Sneeve's place"

With that the disgruntled engineer started to make his way down the dusty drag, smacking his lips at the thought of the awaiting beer he had lusted after all the hot morning.

* * *

><p>Alyssya preened her glossy long black hair into place with the star shaped gemmed pins and admired her reflection. This was going to be a wonderful night after all! What luck that not only did Vel get an escort but one that would put those wagging tongues of Felicity and Yenariel's to rest.<p>

It had been fun, when it was the four of them, 'One of each flavour' Beliel used to say referring to the four girls similar dress sense, age and build, but different coloured hair. She, of course, had the longest darkest ebony locks. Felicity had gloriously white blonde hair, which shone like spun light in the sun. Yenariel had her striking red hair in a short stylish cut which she used to keep out of her face with differing gemmed bands. And then there used to be Anayis with her long loose chocolate tresses. One particular famous admirer of the girls had declared the girls to be 'of such natural worldly beauty' and had named them 'the Seasons', and they played up to that, lapping up the attention it gave them at the various prestigious events they attended in and around Silvermoon. If you wanted YOUR social event to be the best of the year, you HAD to have the all four of 'the seasons' attend. Always the prettiest dressed, the best dancers, the nicest smiles. They had 'almost built a career on partying' Velandra had put it.

It had all gone wrong when 'Summer' got herself married and disappeared from view. Alyssya missed Anayis. They had been all smiles and congratulations when she had broken the news to her three best friends, but underneath the cracked pleasantries a certain jealous feelings settled into the hearts of the trio –

Anayis had got married first.

To a Champion nonetheless, she was the best of the seasons.

And so the seeds of doubt had crept into every girls mind – who would be next? And who could woo someone _better_than a champion? Childish bickering and sniping ensued. Parties had changed from fun into a thankless job, each event a structured act balancing performance with information gathering. Who was the most eligible, who had recently been seen with whom, who was currently worth more, who was more handsome, who had strong family lines... the list went on. It wasn't that she disliked her friends, far from it, a little competition brought out the best in each of them. It just wasn't as 'fun' as it used to be.

Once a week, the three would meet in Velandras inn, share a jug of lightwell while they discussed the months events – who was attending, what they would be wearing etc. They still believed in sharing the information between them, just not 'all' of it. Felicity would always manage to dodge the question of where she got her fabulous jewellery from, and Yenarials's dance instructor just 'happened' to always be away/too busy/ill to accept additional clients. Alyssya herself would never dream to reveal that her most beautiful shoes were actually imported from a very talented Draenai who had a strange fascination for 'real feet' she had put it.

Besides, Yenariel had claimed a few months back that the most eligible bachelor on the circuit, according to their statistics of wealth, looks and prospects was Lord Saltheril who lived on the outskirts of Silvermoon. Each girl had attempted to claim territory on the prize, but they weren't the only ones in the 'competition'. Lord Saltheril was the complete package, more or less. Good looking, land, young enough to be handsome but old enough to know better. The trouble was, every single woman (and some men) in Silvermoon had similar ideas – and the Lord himself had a good idea of what was going on, and seemed to be hosting more and more decadent parties every other week. The Seasons had held off attending for greater social impact ( 'You can't simply turn up to the first one and on time unless you know the host personally. We'd simply look desperate!' Felicity had drawled examining her perfectly painted nails). So they had agreed, the Seasons would attend the third party, they would turn up just after sunset (so not to be all sticky from the suns last evening heat) and they would wear their traditional colours – Felicity in a light spring green to match her eyes, Yenariel would wear a scarlet ensemble to compliment her red hair and Alyssya would wear ice blue... 'To match your personality' Felicity had giggled.

She added a finishing touch of perfume and admired herself in the mirror. Her delicate blue dress hugged her curves delightfully and draped off her ivory skin revealing her slender back. Her lips were painted red and the finest sapphires hung from her ears, no necklace mind, to emphasis the 'almost undressing' nature of the dress – there was no way Lord Saltheril could resist this, especially if she turned up on the arm of such a tall dashing competitor Vel had procured; with his chiselled jaw, strong arms and long chestnut hair. She smirked in the anticipation of victory. Absolutely nothing could get a man's attention quicker than a pretty girl in a stunning dress who was apparently 'unavailable'.

She gives her reflection a flirty wink on departure "Look out Lord Saltheril, Winter is coming!"

* * *

><p>The harsh heat from the Orgimmar was softening as the burning orb began to dip behind the red hills. The market people were beginning to pack up their stalls for the night, others opening up for the nightlife, Crank thought he could smell the beginnings of grilled meat (hopefully a plump chicken rather than rat) and set his mind on a little spicy charred treat on the way home later. He supped some more frothy beer, smirking at Buster who had fallen asleep propped up against the wall making whining snores, drooling out the corner of his mouth. Couldn't hold his beer properly that boy! They'd only done four a-piece and he was out for the count. Although, his own head was starting to feel a little fuzzy, but he'd never admit that to Buster, had a reputation to keep up, it was definitely just the heat. But that tall skinny ill looking fellow at a table towards the end of the bar, he had been getting a refill when they had arrived, and was still going strong. He wondered who he was waiting for and where he managed to put away all that beer! Just as he mused about the important thought of if that man ever had to 'spring a leak', when the most wonderful pair of blue legs strode past his hazy view.<p>

She was a vision to Crank, her toned figure, flaming hair, those legs, and tusks, even the strange dangly bones and bells in her hair. He'd seen her at the bazaar while on his monthly oil gathering from the coin n' carry. She worked with inks and books...an educated lady (by goblin standards – paperwork was one thing, but books and flighty literature involving spells and such, you had to have real brains for that sorta work), and she never seemed too ashamed to wriggle her toes in the pool near her stand, laughing at the heat of the day. Crank had a real weakness for a nice smile and a genuine laugh. He blushed and his ears curled in delight as she winked at him when she caught his gaze, he quickly drained the rest of his tankard to hide his face in the oversized vessel. Unfortunately for Crank, his eyes weren't the only ones on her. A gaggle of lecherous miscreants (in Cranks humble opinion) also decided to voice their approval of the new customer with various whistles and cheers.

"Hey sweet thing, I'm on a hunt for treasure, can I look around your chest?"

She sways up to the bar, draping herself on the rough wood, promptly ignoring the leering rabble to order her usual – a pot of redleaf tea (exotic by the usual standard of fare) and a hookah of cherry and peacebloom tobacco. Morag assembles the hookah on the bar, the blue bulbous glass bottom slopped around with water. "I'll bring the pot over when it's boiled. Goin' on Slims bill is it?" he asks with his usual half grimace smile. "Joo know it! Can ya put some lemon in?" He chuckles at her, she'd once sold him a sword, dwarfish in origin with a wickedly sharp blade, probably looked mighty on dwarf warrior, but it was barely large enough for Morag's large hands to hold. She laughs heartily at the orc gathering up the smoking equipment back to 'Slims' table.

Jonas looked wearily at the elaborate pipework as Pu'shala puffed merrily on the nozzle. "Vulgar habit. I never did like smoking, even when I had lungs to worry about"

"Joo never tasted Gkinka's blend! Ooh mon, could she make some damn fine smokies." She cheekily blew a smoke ring to settle over his stump "She be makin it so smooth…." She sighs "Naht gonna get any o'dat for a while, she be stuck in de Outlands. Joo done much inna Outlands Jonas?"

"I can't recall much. I sent an envoy with some marketing out to Shattrath, but she's not returned. I figured it wasn't quite worth the personal risk yet."

"Hmmm.. mebe." She ponders sucking and puffing blue smoke around her "Well... Ah gots ya scroll right here for ya." She pulls out a tattered parchment and unrolls it on the table. "Here ya go. If we jus' hold it here …" The hooka and mugs are used to keep the scroll open, so that the lavish purple circular pattern can be seen "..and ..here.. Dere! Ya good ta go! Just trace da pattern wit da wordz and Joo be in Underciteh in no time"

Jonas smiles "I remember these swirls. Back in the proverbial day when not everyone and his dog could access a portal. My thanks Lady, you really have got me out of quite the predicament…"

A thick hand grabs her wrist as she points at the parchment and pulls her to her feet, her hand above her head. An excessively tall and muscular troll held her close. Jonas though he has the look of a forest troll about him, or at least somewhere in his lineage, possibly a Gron for his father, he was that ugly.

The assailant take a deep sniff of her braids and licks his tusks hungrily "Joo look great an' all, but joo know what really look good on Joo? ...Meh." She felt his fetid hot breath on her skin and scowled at him. He just laughed and licked her neck as she wrestled against his grip.

This was too much for Crank. Here she was, his fantasy woman, being mercilessly held and tortured by a brute of an ogre, or troll or whatever he was. Regardless of being at least six times smaller than his opponent, probably sixty times weaker but he was filled to the brim with Morag's finest alocoholic courage and the true calling of love, Crank yells out whilst storming over to Jonas's table.

"Oi.. OI! You can't be treating a lady like that! You put her down right now...or…or else!" He points up at the troll male fiercely, trying not to shake… this guy was a lot larger up close, a LOT. Crank mentally began to question his actions.

"Oh yeh little mon? An' Whachoo gonna be doin' about it eh?" He looms over her sweaty green knight in not so shining armour. Pu'shala looks at Crank, his eagerness to prove himself. She knew damn well that she could place a well aimed kick to floor the towering idiot, or Jonas was more than likely brewing a fire bolt…still it was interesting to see where the empowered short one was going with this, so she stayed her foot, in the worst case Morag would break it up.

Crank puffed his chest out in, what he hoped was an authorative manner "What am I gonna do you say?..." he reached behind for his trusty arclight 40 spanner from his belt "..how about THIS!" He lands the heavy lump of metal smack on the trolls large nose, spurting claret blood on the impact and a sick pleasurable feeling of crushing bone and cartilage. The goblin cheered inside at his well landed strike. Sadly, his joy was short lived as the furious troll dropped Pu'shala (who landed rather ungainly on the stone floor with a squeak) with an angry gurgling roar and his huge calloused hands, grabbed Crank by his neck and flung him at the wall. The goblins small body making a sickening crump as he hit the brickwork and bounced off onto the table shattering the hookah and spilling tankard contents over everything.

The air was still with the sudden outburst of hostile activity, no one dared to move. A solitary 'gulp' as one patron loudly swallows their mouthful. Jonas audibly sighed and was the first to break the silence, squealing his wooden chair on the floor he used his good hand to stabilise himself to his feet. However, something didn't feel right beneath his palm. The table started to shake, a little at first, then more violently. A flash of purple crackled under his fingers like a miniature storm brewing, arcing magic between the digits. He looked to the cause, a sinking feeling in his heart as to what was about to occur in the immediate future. What he saw confirmed his fears – the inks on the scroll sparkled and rolled about the page with the spilt beer around his hand, licking and leaping purple arcane sparks over the runes.

"Oh, Boll…." The mage disappeared as if being sucked into the table itself – a peculiar view, as if he were liquid being drawn through an invisible plughole, finalised with a loud CRACK and a wisp of yellow smoke where he once stood.

The bar remained in hushed silence trying to comprehend what had just happened. Even the forest troll looked bemused and seemed to forget the reason for the activities of the last few minutes, his nose still dripping blood down his long chin.

"WHAT THE FEL IS GOING ON IN HERE!" Morag steamed out the kitchen with a small iron kettle, presumably with the water for the tea and his ever present grubby towel over his shoulder. "I leave for 10 minutes for an order and you bar monkeys CAN'T KEEP IT CIVIL FOR 10 MINUTES?!" The rest of the tavern goers remain shamefully quiet and stare intently into their own glasses. Morag was not an Orc to anger, especially if it was your favourite place to dodge work in. The barkeeper was on the warpath. "You! Clean him up!" He nods towards the groaning Crank under the table and tosses the towel to Pu'Shala, "And YOU! OUT! I've 'ad enough of your shit!" He points at the troll and then to the door, the troll rises to argue, but thinks better of it, and angry Morag with his 'lemon knife' was not a fight he wanted to be part of... Wiping his bloody nose on his sleeve and muttering under his breath he skulks out into the drag night to find another bar and another conquest.


End file.
